Everyone Pays by Seth Harwood

long winding stairs up. We were in some offshoot that the public didn’t use. Father Kevin led us to the left, down a hall toward what looked from the outside like residences—maybe what they’d call the rectory.
    Bennett and Coggins still had their superagent routine going, and Hendricks looked as uncomfortable as I’d ever seen him. He crossed himself as soon as he passed through the doors, and I had an image of him growing up going to Catholic school and attending catechism one afternoon a week. I didn’t see any sign of his weapon. It occurred to me that something in his background might be why he hadn’t suspected Debbie Shine might be talking about a priest.
    Father Kevin said, “I take you to rectory. Perhaps he in his room.”
    We entered a stairwell, and the priest led us down one flight to a dim basement level. The thick stone walls held the cold; it was probably ten degrees cooler in here than outside.
    He pushed open a door and stood to the side. We exchanged a glance. Beyond him, I saw a narrow hallway where brown wooden doors lined each side, breaking spans of white-painted walls. Small lanterns, electric fixtures made to look like old lamps at just about head height, offered the only light.
    “Father Michael room is second door on right.”
    I ran the scenarios through my head, considered asking Father Kevin to knock and ask Father Michael to step outside.
    As if he knew, he said, “I go no farther.”
    “You could help us by asking him to step out. It might save someone getting hurt.”
    I waited a beat for him to change his mind, just like he had waited for us to leave our guns. When nothing happened I proceeded into the hall, with Hendricks right behind me. As I walked, my flats clicked on the floor. I figured it had been quite some time since anyone had worn women’s shoes down here.
    I tensed up, thinking about the scenes Father Michael had left behind: Doug Farrow, Dub, Jay Piper. I didn’t want to take any chances on scaring him off. Butcher or not—priest even—this guy liked his violence.
    I slipped my shoes off and stepped down onto the cold concrete in my thin socks. I felt my bones chill. Down here, in this building made of stone, it likely never got warm.
    Now I stepped quietly, sliding my feet and using my toes, conscious of the perspiration I was leaving behind. I raised my weapon. Hendricks still hadn’t drawn his. At the second door, I waved him across to the other side. He still had his shoes on but did his best to walk softly.
    As I lifted my left hand to knock, Father Kevin started down the hall in a hurry. He waved me back, met my eyes, and nodded. I mouthed a thanks.
    Now he knocked at the door, and I stood to his side. He was between Hendricks and me. I stood back across the narrow hall’s other side, my gun low but ready.
    No sound from behind the door.
    “Father Michael? Are you inside?” More knocking. “I’d like to speak to you.”
    We all waited. Nothing.
    I was aware of Bennett and Coggins waiting eagerly behind the priest. Bennett pointed commando-style at his eyes and then mine. I snorted.
    Silence.
    Father Kevin knocked again. “Father Michael?”
    I tilted my head at Hendricks, angling him at the door, and he pushed the priest aside gently, started to lift his leg to kick it in.
    “No,” Father Kevin said. “Please.” He reached for the knob and turned it. “We do not use locks here.” The door opened only slightly.
    “Father Michael?”
    I nudged past Father Kevin into the doorway, then pushed the door open with my toes. What I saw at first was just a small room with a table in the middle of it, like something that hadn’t changed since World War II. Pale morning light shone in through a window above a bed that lined the far wall.
    Then I saw her: a woman sitting in the bed, kneeling in a prayer position.
    She had bleached blonde hair. Just like the girls in the pictures. But hers was short, thin, stuck out at odd angles. Something was off about